


dream of life a nightmare

by paxlux



Series: howl [16]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-02-18
Updated: 2011-02-18
Packaged: 2017-10-15 18:03:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,295
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/163433
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/paxlux/pseuds/paxlux
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam takes it as a sign.</p>
            </blockquote>





	dream of life a nightmare

**Author's Note:**

> AU after Season 3. Disturbing situations, psychosis, slight bloodplay.

One day, the sun pushes its way into the room, crack in the curtains, slanting over Dean's face like a blade as he sleeps.

Sam takes it as a sign. He grins, crawling out of bed.

He waits until Dean's reaching into the empty warm spot for him, until Dean's eyes open and he's muzzy green awake. With a twist of his wrist, Sam pricks his thumb and slides it into his brother's mouth, almost better than coffee.

Dean's tongue curls sleepily against his skin and Sam feels drunk.

Catch me, he says, all dirty challenges and red promises. Come and get me, Dean.

Sammy?

You need a little excitement in your life.

Dean smirks, says, Well, _obviously_ , fucking you isn't enough.

And when Sam pulls away, his thumb shiny wet, he smiles and hitches a bag on his shoulder.

C'mon, baby, you think you can hunt me? Think you can catch me and fuck me to within an inch of my life?

You better believe it.

Then Sam's a shadow in the doorway and he says, Prove it, motherfucker.

Just you wait, you little bitch, Dean says, but Sam's already out the door, hopping into a car that looks like it's held together with wires, gunning the engine, gone in a squeal of tires.

Dean's phone rings and Sam's laughter pours out.

Dean Winchester, second best hunter in the country, gotta chase down his piece of ass.

What the _fuck_ , second best, Dean says. I'm surprised you can give up this cock so easily, Sam.

And Sam laughs through the next four red lights, out of town, jerking himself off over the phone, Dean cussing, shit, Sammy, _holy shit_ , do you know what you sound like, between every heavy breath.

**

The blonde newscaster's kind of hot, in a rip-my-skirt sort of way. A brief news blip about a diner that caught fire and burned to the ground, faster than the firefighters knew what to do with. An on-the-scene video of the firefighters standing around with streams of water, the diner’s sign the only thing left out of a mass of black and orange and grubby white.

The newscaster says the authorities have no comment on what started the fire, but arson might be involved.

There’s a text from Sam: _they had excellent pie._

Dean smirks.

The chase is on.

**

As he drives, Dean thinks about fucking Sam over the trunk of the Impala, spreading him open, all that skin on the black metal, how his blood would look so good and taste even better.

This next time, this next town, a bar has been set ablaze with reports of small explosions, alcohol and glass burning at high temperatures and Dean's pretty damn pissed he missed it. Sam could’ve had the decency to at least wait until Dean was close, closer, maybe slipping out the back door or something, but no, his brother’s being selfish about it.

So in revenge, he calls Sam and teases him with drawn-out schemes of sex, alcohol and blood, ropes and knives and salt, all mixed thick and greedy, until Sam's groaning on the other end, out somewhere in the night.

Left you something in Room 3, his brother says on an exhale.

Oh yeah? Something for my mouth?

Just get there, Dean, Sam whines and hangs up, giving Dean a motel name before the click and the disconnect.

Dean swerves into the parking lot sideways and the girl behind the counter curls her candy apple red tipped fingers, snapping her gum, What the hell what the hell what the hell, she says when Dean opens the door and he laughs because her indignation is kind of cute.

She stops talking, snaps her gum sullenly and shoves the register book at him when he asks for it, easy, darlin', I'm just looking for someone.

Room 3. Dean James. Fuck if his little brother doesn't have his number.

The room's paid for, two days, and the girl hands the key over with a sort of snarl which Dean feels beholden to return and she glares back until he smiles, really because it's _cute_ , like a rabid squirrel or something.

Her face goes white and she calls him Mr. James and takes the register back very carefully.

Room 3 doesn't contain Sam or any sort of version of Sam: naked, smiling, pissed off, bloody, bruised, suicidal, homicidal, pyromaniacal, pliant.

Room 3 does contain a box of chocolates, a shiny red heart box with a gaudy awful bow, a brand-new bottle of Jack, and a printed page with instructions on how to make a Molotov cocktail.

It makes Dean's blood riot, sugar and alcohol and fire in high doses, and he can appreciate the soppy gesture, he wants, but he wants it all tied up in Sam.

He flops back on the bed, pushes his jeans down and pulls his cock out before calling his brother.

This time, he teases Sam as his hand moves, the sounds of slickness and movement and Sam is whispering to him, filth, blackness, his voice pushed like the blood pounding in Dean's body, making him lightheaded.

**

Sam's probably way too pleased with himself, way too proud of his talent.

But he did learn from the best, so he calls Dean. He wants to share, he wants Dean to hear the fire in the background, to hear the sirens and when Dean answers, Sam's so happy, choked up almost, all he can think to say is, This is what you taught me.

The fire roars like hungry lions fighting over a morsel, the flames going up to the sky and the sirens are there faster than Sam thought they'd be, cops and firefighters and it doesn't matter, he's just a bystander. He checked out of the motel before he started the fire.

Dean's talking to him, What is it, Sam, what is it, the news hasn't picked it up yet, another diner?

And Sam wishes Dean could see it, even though they're having fun with this chase, he wishes Dean could see how the flames eat and eat and eat, like his mouth with Dean's blood, how the flames bite at the air, like his teeth on Dean's skin.

It's a motel, Dean.

Gimme fifteen minutes. Dean hangs up and Sam needs his attention back.

Fidgety, he watches the fire, leaning against a nearby wall, bag on his shoulders, bag at his feet.

Fifteen minutes of watching the motel go up in smoke and thinking about how he is just the same, they are the same, him and Dean going up in smoke because they burn, Hell taught them that.

They learned from the best.

Fifteen minutes and Sam's phone chirps and Dean's yelling, A fire for a fire, Sammy, I think Dean James is entitled to some chocolates.

And Sam laughs, so fucking happy, Dean on the phone and they watch their fires as if they were right next to each other.

Dean sends him a picture of the door of Room 3 being chewed away by fire and then another picture of the heart-shaped box, knifed open and some of the chocolates are already missing.

**

The chocolates aren't bad.

Milk chocolate and then there's a coconut one, which Dean chucks at the burning motel.

Sam calls him back and says, So when’re you gonna catch me.

When do you wanna get fucked, Dean replies.

And Sam says, Now. So you better hurry up.

Click.

The sirens are louder than the Impala’s engine as Dean leaves town, chasing a text that says _three towns away, you fucking sorry excuse for a hunter_.

**

This newscaster's brunette and she's wearing too much jewelry, enough for Dean to hock and buy Sam a sweet, sweet stinging blade.

He's not resting, he's saving his energy, stretched out naked on his bed and somehow he knows Sam's doing the same, as if they were in the same bed at the same time, hands skidding over blood-warm skin.

Both motels have made the local news.

Bad wiring, maybe. That's what started the fires.

**

It takes some finagling, but Sam gets the picture he wants. He sends it to Dean and then heads into town.

The buildings here are pretty boring and nothing really jumps out at him, nothing really says _burn me_ or looks like it would send up the right amount of signal smoke.

A little tiny town and if he threw the match in just the right place, it might go up like a fire in a trashcan.

But he doesn't have the time, not today, since Dean'll be right behind him, right on his tail, racing along with the windows down and the music up and Sam misses Dean so much, but this element of being chased is just as fun, just as drugging because he knows what Dean will do when he catches him, he knows and he can't wait.

He's almost stupid with it and he's circling through town with his cock hard and aching and then he has an idea.

**

It's a picture of Sam with a city limits sign and his gun. Like he's holding it hostage.

Fuck, but he loves his brother.

So Dean does what is expected in this instance.

He's naked on the bed, all his blood thrumming with Sam's name.

Grabbing his phone, he closes his eyes and gets himself ready.

**

Sam's phone beeps.

Dean sent him a picture of his cock, slick slick slick, and his hand covered in come and blood.

He almost chokes, mouth flooded with saliva and laughter.

 _where the fuck are you. get on the road, you and your dick, you dick._

 _getting there. i'll put you on your knees._

**

There's smoke on the horizon. It doesn't curl, there's too much of it, it goes almost straight up in a column and Dean's following it like he's out in the desert and the smoke is all he knows.

It rises out of the buildings, like a warning, like a summons.

Dean has to fucking park because there's too much fucking traffic and gawkers and fuck, it's annoying, he just wants to see what Sam set on fire.

Middle of Main Street or wherever the hell he is, a car, stuck crooked like it dropped from the sky, the chassis framed with steel and flames.

Something pops, a small explosion, the windshield cracking, and people gasp, but Dean starts to laugh.  
He scans the crowd because Sam's here, he's close, Dean knows it.

And then there's Sam, leaning against a lamppost, his smile all for Dean.

Dean's phone rings.

I'm right here, dumbass. Come get me, Sam says into his phone as Dean watches and there's another popping sound from the car, steel giving way, something breaking.

Stay put and I'll fuck you in front of all these people.

You'd like that, wouldn't you.

Well, yeah, Sam, that's why I said it.

Sam smirks as Dean pushes his way through the people and then he tilts his head, hiding his eyes and for a minute, Dean is lost without those eyes.

Too easy, Sam says, and then he's running.

**

Sam’s running because this is a chase, because it’s like dark corners and hidden claws and things you’d never expect, things that’ll jump out at you and consume you, like how much Sam fucking needs Dean, so he runs, his laughter coming out breathless and high and he feels kamikaze dazed, veering between walls and down alleyways and when he hears Dean yell his name, he almost stops just so Dean can see why Sam loves fire, why Sam took everything Dean taught him and used it bloody and used it well to unlock them both.

He slips into a doorway and holds his breath and Dean races past him, but doesn’t see him.

He listens to Dean’s footsteps. He doubles back and fishes around for a receipt in his pockets, in his wallet, the pen he keeps in his jacket.

He can’t wait to be caught.

**

Dean gets back to the Impala, Sam-less and feeling heartless and reckless and completely fearless.

There's a note on the windshield.

 _I wanted to get laid._

And Dean's hard so fast, he has to put a hand on the car, ground himself with the metal.

In the end, he decides that maybe he's the one who held the town hostage because he doesn't leave without starting a bar fire of his own.

He sends Sam a picture of the Molotov cocktail instructions as the paper catches fire.

**

Bobby's kitchen is quiet in the mornings, usually, but today his phone rings and he almost drops the skillet.

It's another hunter, his tone angry and thready, distrustful and dark.

The report is something like nine structures burned down in five days. The numbers might vary, but the results don't.

Local counties are acting like chickens with their heads cut off, thinking it's simple cases of arson, just a firebug with itchy fingers.

Might be something else. Might be something that needs killing. Might be something on the run.

Bobby's in the area, so he agrees, he'll go check it out though he isn't convinced.

Elemental. Demon. Some sort of monster playing with its food. Something that just wants chaos and destruction.

He'll check it out. See what's what.

He shakes his head. Something feels familiar.

**

Sam calls his brother, needy and demanding, because he can't help it, he's been without Dean for more than a week, he's _been without_ and he's on edge, always on edge, crawling in his skin, hands shaking.

He needs and he calls and he's jerking off over the phone, brutally fast, like it's self-harm, and Dean's talking him through it, talking about how he wants to fuck Sam until he slams unconscious, how he wants to mark up Sam until they're both weak-kneed and blurry-eyed with blood loss, how he needs to do every single knife-jagged minute of it to teach Sam a lesson.

**

The map's spread out in front of him, Bobby marking towns with Xs like the fallen in wartime.

There doesn't seem to be a pattern, just randomness, just towns caught in the line of fire, so to speak, nothing laid out in nice, easy tracks.

Chin in hand, he surveys the area because something's nagging him, as if it's there just out of sight, corner of his eye, past the tip of his brain, it's there.

His phone rings again and it's another hunter, sounding like the first, frustrated and curious.

Was gonna check out what all the fuss was for himself, but there's blood being spilled on the East Coast, those damn black dogs, and since Bobby's around, well, Bobby doesn't need his help.

Heard tell in one of the towns though of a black car coming through the aftermath, late to the scene, roaring off just as fast, like its tires might catch fire too.

Maybe there's another hunter around in case this turns out to be too much.

Maybe it's just some fool with a box of matches and a love of property damage.

The hunter wishes Bobby luck and heads off to the black dogs on the East Coast.

And Bobby stares at the map and drags a hand over his face.

He sighs and pours a fresh cup of coffee.

**

Sam's got three things to do today in order for it to be a good day. He thinks of Dean alone, asleep, maybe naked under the sheets. And wait, four, Sam's got four things to do today in order for it to be a good day.

He calls Dean, wakes him up, with his voice pitched low and he's begging right away, first words Dean hears that morning, he's begging for Dean, for his big brother, for his knife and blood and mouth and cock and fists.

He makes Dean come with his voice alone, with just the dark and dirty falling out of his mouth and Sam ends up biting his tongue when he hears Dean come, a push of blood that he's swallowing as he comes too.

After Sam knows Dean's showered, fetched some coffee, and is probably in the car, waiting, the second thing is to text him.

Sam sends a picture of the motel sign because Dean can't get here fast enough and even though this is a chase, Sam really fucking wants to be caught. He remembers vaguely once wanting to be free, but now that’s gone, it’s all gone, has been since he ended up in Hell and he knew he would be taking Dean back.

 _you be here tonight, motherfucker. i'll bring the handcuffs._

 _bitch, there better be handcuffs._

The third thing is to wander the town with a smile on his face and find the best bar. After the sun goes down, he's got a bar fight to start.

The fourth thing is to find something that wants to burn.

**

The itch at the back of Bobby’s brain won’t let him sleep. He can’t sleep because some part of him knows, it just does; he hasn’t heard from the Winchesters in almost three weeks, maybe a month, and if he hasn’t heard from them, if he hasn’t heard their voices, then he almost is compelled to ask.

But this, this he knows.

The fires.

The black car.

There’s no word about anyone matching the descriptions; he says he’s looking for his nephews, they might’ve passed through, he’d heard about the fires, and so sorry about that, yeah, they're sorry, no one’s seen his nephews.

The itch at the back of Bobby’s brain won’t let him sleep. It’s either one of them, or both of them, or.

Or maybe it’s an elemental. A demon. Something that crawled from fire and lives with fire and eats fire.

But he can’t sleep because the itch won’t go away. And the only thing he can do to make it go away is to see for himself.

In a few hours, he’ll drive, keep going until he gets to the closest fire town and he tries not to think about burning along the roads.

**

Dean is pacing next to his car until he gets the picture from Sam. It’s a chase, Sam leading him on, Sam throwing signs at him and they might be omens, they might be all the symbols that make them up, make up the two of them together, because it’s a chase and all Dean wants to do is capture Sam, bring him down, crashing down to earth so he can get his mouth on him and remind them both of who they are.

Or he just wants to fuck his brother, fuck him bloody and open and it’s been a fucking _week_.

He grins as he starts the car. He grins as he guns it out onto the road.

He can’t wait to see what happens next.

**

There’s a water tower, but it’s hard to burn that, considering that it holds water and all. Sam wants something high up, something that Dean will see as he pulls into town.

But he has to act fast because after he sets his fire, he has to start his bar fight and sometimes those take a while.

It’s all about timing and presentation. It’s all about welcoming Dean with all the pomp and circumstance afforded to the brother who went to Hell for him and came back with Sam, leaning on him, with his skin slippery with blood and ash.

That’s still one of his favorite tastes, blood and ash on Dean’s body, cut with sweat.

It’s a sign. There’s a sign, almost a billboard on the top of this building. It’s perfect, high, black against the sun as it starts to set and that’s it, that’s what needs to burn.

And maybe, once Dean arrives, if he wants, they can burn down something else.

They could leave town, with a streak of fire and gasoline behind them, write their names in flame and asphalt and the snarl of the engine.

He finds the building, finds the stairs and starts climbing.

**

Bobby skips all the other towns. He’s stared at the map until his vision’s glowed at the edges and when he closes his eyes, it’s imprinted against the black. He could probably draw it in his sleep. If he could sleep.

He skips all the other towns.

He calls Dean instead.

Hey, Bobby, Dean says, and there’s road noise, the windows down and a rustle as the music suddenly dies.

Hey, kid, where’re you at? You two on a hunt?

Dean laughs, short and dark. You could call it that. But it’s just me.

Something in Bobby sort of reverses. Where’s Sam?

See, that’s the fun, Bobby! Dean says. He’s at this town, and I’m headed there to pick him up.

Pick him up? What’s he doing there?

Trying to teach me to have fun. Or some shit. Dean’s voice sounds slurred, not like he’s been drinking, but as if he’s trying not to laugh, as if he knows a secret and he can’t tell.

You nearby then?

Yeah, well, I’m headed into Epiphany, why you near there?

Bobby skips all the other towns, knows where he’s headed now. Elemental. Demon. Something old, something new. He still hopes.

Yeah, I’ll be there too. In ‘bout an hour.

Dean says, You on a hunt?

Yeah, Bobby says. You could call it that.

We’ll buy you the first round. Road noise again, Dean flying down the highway somewhere, behind Bobby, ahead of Bobby, somewhere close and then the call disconnects.

He’s never gotten the hang of refolding maps, they never follow their creases. He stuffs the map into the glove compartment, puts the car in drive, and he knows where he’s headed now.

**

The sign goes up, prettier than almost anything Sam’s seen, fast and crackling, lighting just as the sun sets. A huge rectangle of fire and he’s laughing, hoping maybe Dean’s already here, maybe he can see it from the ground, or if he’s pulling into town, maybe he can see it from the road, even better.

The bar fight is just as quick, just as easy, prettier than almost anything Sam’s seen. He buys a row of shots of tequila and downs them in slow calculated succession, as he picks someone to fight with or about, either to hit on them or antagonize them.

It turns out to be antagonize, broken shot glasses as a girl puts her hand on his ass, not only to piss off her ape of a boyfriend, but to steal his wallet and Sam’s got her wrist twisted behind her faster than she can finish saying, Hey, soldier, buy me a drink.

He’s happy she can see the soldier in him, that warrior set, that steel in his frame and that drive in his eyes, and he’ll have to tell Dean about that, but right now, she’s gasping in pain and her boyfriend’s saying, Fuckhead, let the little lady go.

This guy has no idea. Sam smiles. After all she did touch him first and he’s not hers to touch. He smiles, lets her go and then punches the stupid bastard.

And then it’s smashing glass and the smell of alcohol and yelling, which is always enough to get Sam’s adrenaline going.

He’s sporting a bruise across his jaw, and maybe a cut over his eye, a bruise like knuckles over his ribs, and Sam knew this would happen, it’s a fucking fight after all, but he’s kind of pissed about this sacrifice, having these marks on him that aren’t from Dean.

When the police arrive, Sam smiles. He still wants to set a cop car on fire, him and Dean both, they want to see it, but at present, he needs this cop car.

He’s got the handcuffs.

Then he hears the Impala coming down the street.

And there it is, prettier than almost anything Sam’s seen, his brother behind the wheel and hot damn, Sam’s ready for some fun.

**

When Dean arrives, the firefighters are out in full force, aiming water hoses at the sign on the top of the building as it burns black and smoky now.

Then he sees the flashing red-and-blue as he drives into town. A hole-in-the-wall-bar and people and cops standing around outside.

And Sam, the lights coloring him and shadowing him and he’s being put into a squad car.

They see each other and Sam’s smiling, that joyous smile Dean loves like the push of the gas pedal, it’s all for Dean and yeah, Sam’s brought the handcuffs.

Dean’s little brother is a full-on devious schemer and holy shit if Dean isn’t proud of him.

**

The jail cell is bluish-gray and reminds Sam of demons, but right now, he doesn’t know why. He’s alone, this town small enough that there’s probably not enough trouble for the cells to fill up, all six of them, this town small enough that Sam has his thought again of lighting a match and watching everything go up in easy, easy flames.

He’s fidgeting, antsy, pacing back and forth because he wants Dean to get here, he’s in a cage, he’s on display and he wants Dean to see him behind bars, held and waiting, like a present, a prize for Dean, captured and captive.

To the victor go the spoils.

Dean better get here soon.

Sam wants to see how Dean’ll break him out of here, break him out of his cell and the police station, how Dean will break him out and break him down and break him as if he’s done something wrong.

The bars make soft mournful sounds as Sam runs his fingers along them, back and forth, back and forth.

Waiting.

**

On the road, the outskirts of town, Bobby hears sirens.

**

Small-time police station for small-time cops in a small-time town and Dean’s enjoyed tailing the cop car, his baby blending in black as night falls and the cops don’t have a single fucking clue, way to go, boys in blue.

He parks and watches them take Sam inside, watches them _touch_ him and Sam’s arms are behind his back, cuffed, and yeah, this is when the fun begins.

It’s perfect, just laid out in front of him, like this town is some sort of gift to be unwrapped, it’s perfect because there’s a gas station on the corner and this is child’s play.

Dean burns his fingers, only out of surprise, the gasoline catching quicker than he expected, fuck, and it’s all popcorn, as a car pops, then another, then another, until it hits the pumps.

The explosion rocks the corner, and Dean’s laughing, as he runs to the police station.

The receptionist is ready to duck under her desk as he bursts through the doors, yelling truth and bullshit, the gas station’s blown up, maybe city hall, maybe even the library, holy fuck, people better get out on the streets, get out on the fucking streets and do something!

The place empties pretty quick except for the desk sergeant, the receptionist and the dispatcher, but once Dean waves a gun in their faces, they’re ready to leave too, once Dean relieves the sergeant of his keys and handcuffs, thank you kindly.

Actually, he changes his mind. The receptionist and the dispatcher are very nice ladies, both of them young and wide-eyed and he smiles at them, won’t hurt you, I promise, just sit tight. The sergeant is locked in the supply closet, left with a stash of pencils and pens and whatever the janitor uses and Dean puts a chair in front of the door for good measure.

And there’s extra handcuffs, it’s Dean’s birthday again, these police stations are so damn fun, a barrel of laughs, really, so he handcuffs the receptionist and the dispatcher together, a brunette and a blonde, wrist to wrist to wrist to wrist, so that they’re facing each other.

Because an audience is an audience and a pretty audience is even better, but Dean’s got a different idea, since Sam thinks that he doesn’t fucking know how to have any fucking fun.

The three of them head back to the cells and Dean says, You two ladies are all right. Tough as nails. Should be proud of yourselves.

Sam’s in the first cell on the left, prowling, long-limbed grace, lithe and furious and he’s burning up with waiting, Dean can tell, because Sam’s always had a bedrock of patience made out of stubbornness, but when he wants something, he wants it, he’ll get it, and he’s impatient for it only because he doesn’t have it now, right motherfucking now.

His eyes go dark when he sees Dean, when he sees the girls, but all he says is, What the hell, you set the library on fire?

No, Dewey Decimal, just the gas station, shit, _relax_.

Sam hasn’t stopped prowling, his eyes never leaving Dean as he moves. ‘Bout time you got here. You wanna hurry the fuck up? Kept me waiting.

He glances sharp at the girls, glaring cold, and Dean shakes his head. Dude, no, just hang on.

Dean installs the girls in the cell next to Sam’s, leaves them cuffed to each other and says, Take five.

When he gets back to Sam, his brother’s at the bars, smirking.

**

Come and get me, Sam says.

And Dean is struck-match eyes and blast radius grin and Sam has missed him so much, he hurts like he’s been shot.

**

The door creaks open and Sam steps back, a hunter in a trap, prey, predator, and Dean steps in, a hunter in a trap, prey, predator, and they smile because Sam’s bruised and bloodied and Dean smells like gasoline and smoke.

**

So it’s like someone watching them, but not, because the girls in the cell next door can only hear instead of see and Dean wants Sam loud enough for it to be like murder, swift and brutal and shocking, Sam’s body startled at what Dean’s going to do to him.

He shoves Sam against the wall and Sam goes so easily, it’s like he’s reading Dean’s mind or maybe just his grin because Sam’s grin probably matches his own, as if Dean’s about to fuck his reflection, even if Sam’s taller and darker and his blood tastes a little bit different, his eyes so shift-cutting that Dean thinks he might commit suicide on Sam, just by kissing him or getting Sam’s teeth on his skin.

**

It’s been a fucking week, a long fucking week full of missing Dean, every day poured to the brim with flammable materials and Sam has torched every single day, let each and every one burn away to leave nothing but the sting of his blood without Dean and the straining draw of the gravity well, the black empty space where Dean usually is by his side.

It’s all he’s been able to breathe, outside of the chemical smell and the strike of matches, outside of the grind of his stolen engine and how it doesn’t sound right as it goes down the road.

Now Dean is here. Dean is where he belongs, even in this fucking jail cell, it doesn’t matter because he’s with Sam again. Dean’s here and there’s an audience on the other side of the wall and sometimes fire makes everything better.

Sam smirks. He’s got a knife in his back pocket and he makes sure Dean finds it when he grabs him, tripping his brother so he falls into Sam.

**

There’s no point in taking their time, catalyst and ignition, blasting cap and sparking fuse, no point in slowing down because with them, there isn’t a kill switch, no matter who’s died and who’s been left alive, no circuit breakers, no safety measures.

They don’t strip down, too greedy to do more than shove at their jeans, Sam gasping with his cheek pressed to the wall, Dean pushing fingers into him as he whispers over and over how Sam needs to learn his lesson.

But it’s not enough, not flashpan enough, they need the flare of light and heat.

So Dean fucks Sam, there on the floor of the jail cell, Sam laughing about prison sex and bruises, about blood on his teeth from a punch to the mouth as Dean licks over the cut above his eye.

The knife is there, the knife is ready to take them apart, down to their batteries and wires, their components of devastation because their blood tastes like iron and copper and it is the dynamo between them, pushing them faster and higher, generating the current, heating the air, and when they come, they’ll be like a thermobaric weapon, blasting apart the walls and this hole-in-the-wall town.

It’s been a week.

They fuck like it’s an annihilation.

They fuck bloody and open and it’s like the last time, it’s like the first time.

Then Dean says, C’mon, baby, call me ‘big brother’ when you come.

And that does it, that breaks it and Sam is gone. And he says, Dean, he says, Big brother.

With Sam’s bloody thumbprint on his jaw, Dean laughs and comes.

**

Sam’s shirt is sticking to him where he’s sweaty and bleeding, and Dean just takes his off because it’s sliced to shit anyway.

He tosses the receptionist and the dispatcher the keys to their cuffs, ignoring how they’re shivering, how they won’t make eye contact with him or Sam, but Sam just waves and says, Dean’s right about you. Tough as nails.

**

Sam ransacks the cabinets for anything good, because the one time Dean didn’t get to take his bullhorn from the last police station they were in, he didn’t shut up about it for something like a month.

Dean ransacks the cabinets for ammo and any new weapons, maybe some good shotguns or hell, even a flare gun, c’mon, Sammy, it’s like fireworks, sorta, and the next time you get lost in the big bad woods, maybe you’ll actually be fucking useful with one’a these.

Oh shut the fuck up, Dean.

Make me, asshole.

There’s that grin, the one like shockwave aftermath and Sam says, My pleasure.

Dean’s phone rings.

Hey, Bobby, if you need to get gas, better fill up at the one on the other end of town. The one down by the police station is out of order.

**

They argue about whether to burn down the building, but decide against it because it’s brick and won’t burn like they want.

They just want to get back on the road where they belong, but they won’t admit it.

They leave the girls in the cell and a puddle of blood on the floor in the next cell over.

They get gas and pick up beer and smile at each other as the kid behind the register wonders if they’re about to rob him.

**

Bobby meets them at the city limits sign.

He only has to take one look at them to know.

Because beyond the sooty smudges on Dean, the blood and the bruises and the smell of accelerant and smoke, he already knew.

And he makes a gritted-teeth decision, hard and final like a bear trap.

Sam grins when he sees him, gives him a huge hug. Hey, man, you out here on a hunt? He leaves streaks on Bobby’s shirt, but Bobby just says, Nope, think it’s taken care of.

He drinks with them and thinks about restitution and how the two boys he counts as kin never got theirs, how some things are better left to settle, like ash.

He stays with them for hours, talking through the night, Dean’s smile and Sam’s laughter are contagious and every time he doesn’t talk to them, it’s like a glacier age, carving time slowly in a freezing fashion and everything is stuck, he’s stuck, worrying about them, some day they might slip and fall.

He drinks with them, out there in the dark on the outskirts where their eyes shine as they drink and they never look away.

Sometimes there’s black dogs on the East Coast and sometimes there’s demons in the town where you grew up and sometimes there’s just what you’re familiar with in your own backyard.

**

It’s almost dawn when Bobby’s leaning against his open door, saying, You geniuses better call more often. I don’t care if it’s to shoot the breeze or break wind.

Sam cracks up, climbing into the car and Dean drapes himself across the Impala’s driver-side door. Trust me, Bobby, next time we stop for tacos, I’ll make sure we call.

**

They’re on a dirt road, maybe a fire road, that name exists for a reason, but it doesn’t matter, because it won’t stop them, can’t.

They aren’t tired, they aren’t, and Sam thinks something’s missing, he isn’t sizing everything up to burn it down.

And Dean says, If you’re a good boy—

But Sam just hangs a pair of handcuffs from the rearview mirror and licking his lips, stretches as best he can in the shotgun seat, and Dean mutters, Fucker.

They aren’t tired, they aren’t, but Dean thinks they might need a motel.

**

So what did we fucking learn, Dean says.

Wiping at the blood on his palm, Sam says, Not much. You never did like to pay attention in school.

Hey, I know the definition of ‘arson.’

You know the definition of ‘pyromaniac,’ you pyromaniac.

Dean scoffs, spits blood. You’re the pyromaniac.

I learned from the best, Sam says, as he strikes a match.

Yeah, you did, Dean says, pushing his forehead against Sam’s shoulder.

The bed catches fire and they watch it burn for a while before they walk out to the car and drive away.

**Author's Note:**

> Title is from “Howl” by Allen Ginsberg, which I am only humbly borrowing. There really is an Epiphany, SD; I have never been there, I just wanted something in the area and I like the name (what up, Epiphany?), so I'm sorry I blew up your gas station and burned down a sign. I hope you can forgive me.


End file.
